


as the river flows

by seasaltgasoline



Series: these hands are meant to hold [2]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Australia, Bars and Pubs, Brighton Beach, Drinking, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Melbourne, Mild Sexual Content, Not that explicit but explicit enough me thinks, Reader-Insert, Road Trips, Romance, Sexual Content, Shotgunning, Smoking, Tattoos, The Great Ocean Road, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltgasoline/pseuds/seasaltgasoline
Summary: Sydney may have been the catalyst, but Melbourne is where things really begin, where you and Chris figure out where you stand with each other.(sequel toon the edge of sunshine)
Relationships: Bang Chan/Reader
Series: these hands are meant to hold [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018063
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	as the river flows

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done after [on the edge of sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401068) but I guess I still have more to write. Reading that first would probably help make sense of this one, lol.  
> Ok I really wanted an excuse to write more about Australia  
> I spent a grand total of three days in Melbourne. I know very little about the city, but it’s lovely and I cannot wait until I can go back. For the purposes of this fic, I did the bare minimum of Googling. All factual inaccuracies are powered by laziness.  
> This one actually contains smut!!! Nothing super duper explicit, but enough that I felt it warranted an ‘E’ rating.  
> Big hugs and hearts to my Ellie-wellie for being my beta <3  
> I wrote this with the ‘This is (G)I-DLE’ playlist on Spotify on loop. Also, a lot of Chungha.

***

You're glad to be back in Melbourne, a city of art and colour and light, surrounded by tall buildings and neon signs and with access to modern Internet speeds, off the back of two weeks spent on a winery in the Yarra Valley. 

The valley had been an experience - you'd spent fourteen days on a farm, tending to the vineyard by day and getting drunk off red wine at night, and while it had been enjoyable, you're glad to be back in civilization.

You've run to a number of different places, over the years, mountains and seas and everything in-between, and you find that you still like cities better, you like getting swallowed up by the noise and becoming one of many faces in a crowd. The countryside is lovely, yes, but the silence is oppressive, and being in the middle of nowhere is just… uncomfortable, which is why you're pretty pleased to be sipping on iced tea in a café, with a view of the Yarra River as it twines through the city, duffel bag on the seat beside you. You should probably go pick up your suitcase from its storage locker at the train station, find a room at a hostel and maybe catch some shut-eye, but you've got time.

Your phone lights up with a notification.

_You're back in Melbourne today right? Wanna get dinner?_

You smile, and tap out a reply.

_Sure._

*** 

The restaurant is casual, an Asian fusion joint that smells like a riot of flavour, and you pull your pack out of the pocket of your windbreaker, lighting a cigarette.

It's the end of November, and the sun can be brutal, but the nights still carry a chill.

You smoke quietly, content to just let the city move around you as you wait. 

"Y/N!"

You look up, and grin.

It's easy, to tip your head up to peck Chris on the cheek, and he returns the gesture, smiling.

"How was Yarra? The pictures looked great."

"It took me five minutes to upload those," you grumble, "the internet connection out there is terrible." 

"That's rural Australia for you," Chris says, raking his fingers through his hair, and you snort, offering him the rest of your cigarette.

"Need a hit?"

"If you don't mind," he says wryly, and accepts it, taking a long, slow drag.

"You can finish it," you tell him, and his smile is grateful.

"Changbin's been bugging me about quitting," he admits, taking another puff, "so it's been a little challenging to have a smoke."

"I get it," you say, with a laugh. You're no stranger to well-meaning friends trying to get you to kick the habit, but it's not something that can be done unless you're good and ready - which neither you nor Chris are, clearly. 

Chris finishes the cigarette and stubs it out.

"Shall we?" he asks, and you smile.

"Let's go."

The two of you duck into the restaurant, and it isn't long before you're both seated at a small table in the back, several platters of assorted small bites strewn across the table, alongside two bowls of steaming white rice. 

Conversation with Chris is easy - you tell him about your farmstay, and how you don't want to look at a bottle of wine for the next month at least, and he fills you in on how 3RACHA's gigs have been going. They'd been doing the rounds in Sydney - which was where you'd met them first - before moving on to Melbourne around the same time you did, exploring the city's rap scene by performing at various bars and clubs, and, now that the weather was warm, at small music festivals.

You, on the other hand, had spent your first week in Melbourne splitting your time almost evenly between a few of the city's museums, the casino at the Crown Hotel, and a number of local bars and clubs, before spending a fortnight on a vineyard.

"What are Han and Changbin up to?" you ask, helping yourself to a spring roll, and Chris laughs.

"Han's out with some guys from a group we performed with last week, and a friend of his is in town so Changbin's hanging out with him," he shares, "our next gig isn't till Thursday, we needed to get away from each other for a bit."

"That's understandable," you remark.

The rest of dinner passes as usual, just casual chat and commentary, and when you're leaving the restaurant, Chris drops his hand to the small of your back.

"Where are you staying?" 

"I got a hostel," you say, "haven't firmed up my plans yet so I just got a bunk for a few days."

His hand slides over to rest on your waist, and you smile.

"It's still early," Chris says, his voice light, "do you wanna get a drink or something?"

You could do with a cocktail, yes, but you're also of the opinion that there really isn't a need to drag things out.

You curl your fingers around his elbow.

"Or something," you murmur, and you reach up, wrapping a hand around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, long and deep and almost filthy.

When you pull away, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. 

You're sure you don't look any better.

"Han will be back late and Changbin's not coming back tonight," he says quietly, big hands coming to wrap around your waist, and you take his face between your hands, looking up at him.

"That's good to know." 

***

This is not the first time you've hooked up with Chris, and it won't be the last, not while the two of you are in the same city. 

It had started in Gerroa, when you'd bared a sliver of your soul to him under the stars, when a kiss led to the two of you making out to the sound of ocean waves in the background before stumbling back into the Airbnb, wandering hands and eager mouths, almost desperate, needy.

And it had carried on, the rest of the time in Sydney, easy friendship bleeding into casual sex, trading indirect kisses over shared cigarettes in alleyways after gigs, grinding against each other in his car, and falling into bed together, after dinner and drinks.

Moving on to Melbourne at the same time was a coincidence, but you don’t see any reason not to carry on with this arrangement - Chris is good company, and a good lay, and you’re happy to have this, for as long as it lasts.

You’re under no illusion that this will be anything more, because your visa expires in three months, and he’s got a whole life waiting for him, back in Seoul. 

This is not the first time you've hooked up with Chris, and it won't be the last, not while the two of you are in the same city, and you’ll enjoy it while you can, his hands on your skin and his mouth on your collarbone, the bruises he leaves in your flesh when he pushes into you, the way he sighs when he's buried in your warmth, praise and curses falling from his lips like benediction. 

And you relish it, relish the taste of him on your tongue, how he looks on his knees between your thighs, how he feels when you curl your fingers around his length, the way he gasps and moans when he’s spread out beneath you as you ride him, how he bucks his hips when you suck bruise after bruise into his neck, the air humid and electric. 

You chase the pleasure the same way you chase the thrill, riding the adrenaline high, teeth clacking as you kiss, one hand curled into his hair and the other digging into his shoulder, his hands on your hips, messy and filthy and you love it, love the fullness and the ache.

It’s exhilarating, and you ride that wave, on that edge, until it breaks.

***

Post-coital is a funny word, and it means different things for different people, but for you and Chris it involves basking in the afterglow with a pack of cigarettes, your legs draped over his thighs, smoke curling in the air, serpentine.

He exhales, and tips his head back, baring the bruises you’ve left on his skin, and you tap ash into the small ceramic bowl you’re using as a makeshift ashtray. 

“Are you planning on doing the Great Ocean Road?” Chris asks, one hand rubbing circles into your knee, and you chuckle.

“It’s the thing to see when in Melbourne, isn’t it? I definitely want to, I just haven’t figured out the details.”

“I can drive you,” he offers, and you’re reminded of Bondi, of his awkward offer to drive to Gerroa that led you both to this point, “we can make a trip of it.” 

You smile.

“That’d be nice,” you tell him, taking another drag, and when he leans over to kiss you, you part your lips so that the smoke swirls between your mouths, heady and intoxicating. 

You settle back against the pillows, and the two of you discuss the general logistics of going on another roadtrip, slowly smoking through half the pack.

You stub out your last cigarette.

“I’m gonna go get some water, you want anything?” you ask, and Chris shakes his head. 

“Help yourself to whatever,” he tells you, and you leave him to his smoke, pulling on his shirt and your underwear as you stumble into the kitchen in search of a glass.

He has a tendency towards oversized shirts, especially when he's dressed casually, and on you his t-shirt is almost like a dress, skimming your thighs. 

You’re halfway through your cup of water when you hear someone yelp loudly. You turn, and you see Han standing at the entrance to the bathroom, towel over his head and his big eyes practically bugging out of his face.

“Hey Han,” you say, taking a quick glance at the clock on the kitchen counter - he probably got back not too long ago. 

"Y/N," he says, "I didn't realize you were here." 

"It wasn't planned," you admit, finishing up your drink, and Han sits down on one of the stools at the counter. 

“How have you been?” you ask, leaning against the fridge, and Han fills you in on what he’s been up to. You follow each other on Instagram - it had just made sense, given how often Chris brings you round for drinks after gigs - and so he knows about your farmstay, just as you know about his newly-acquired Nintendo Switch. 

“Animal Crossing is seriously fun,” he insists, and you suppose you can see the appeal of a game that involves running away to a small island and designing it according to your own whim and fancy.

You vaguely register the sound of a door opening, and you smile when a broad hand curls around your hip, pulling you against a bare, muscular chest.

"Yo," Chris says, clad in his sweatpants, and Han claps his hands over his eyes.

"Hyung," he says, "please put on a damn shirt."

"It's not like you haven't seen me naked," Chris retorts, and Han makes a sound like a dying cow.

"You didn't have _so many fucking hickeys_ _then_ ," he hisses, and Chris has the decency to flush.

You don't, so instead, you smirk, turning around to skim one hand down Chris' chest, and maybe you're admiring the bruises you've bitten into his skin, the red lines you've raked into his flesh.

"I'll go… put on a shirt," Chris says awkwardly, and Han peeks out from behind his fingers as the older boy shuffles back into the bedroom.

You lean back against the counter, and Han sighs.

"I'm glad you're back, Y/N," he tells you, "Chan-hyung's easier to deal with when you're around."

You laugh. 

***

You honestly don’t think much about Han’s comment, a throwaway remark in the early morning in a dim kitchen, because you and Chris have been hooking up pretty often - who wouldn’t be in a better mood, if they were getting some on the regular? 

You put it out of your mind completely, and you forget about it, until the day you find yourself perched on one of the beach boxes at Brighton Beach, Changbin next to you eating an ice-cream sandwich. 

Chris and Han are shin-deep in the water, engaging in what, as far as you can tell from the limited amount of Korean you've picked up from the boys, sounds like a riveting conversation about fried chicken.

You’ve got a popsicle in hand, as some kind of weird compromise because while Changbin looks gruff and tough, his secret weapon is the puppy dog eyes.

He’s seriously fucking _cute_. 

You’d gone with 3RACHA to Brighton because - well, why not, Chris was driving and you’d wanted to go anyway - and when you got out of the car you’d barely fumbled your pack out of your pocket before Changbin had been all up in your face, wearing the most adorable hangdog look, along with a fumbling speech in his accented English about the dangers of smoking. 

You’re a stone cold bitch, but you’re not that cold, and so in lieu of a cigarette or three you’re currently making your way through a lemon-lime popsicle, fluorescent green and refreshing in the summer heat. 

It doesn’t _really_ take the edge off, but it’s nice. Brighton is gorgeous, the little houses along the beach a riot of colour, and you especially love the one that's painted with an imitation of Hokusai’s ‘Great Wave off Kanagawa’. There’s sea salt in the air and a warm breeze blowing, and you dig your toes into the sand. 

“Noona?” 

You turn to look at Changbin, who has finished his ice-cream sandwich. He’s always addressed you using the honorific, the result of a lifetime of habit, even though you’ve told him repeatedly not to.

"What’s up?”

He pauses, and you smile encouragingly - his English has improved a lot, thanks to the time they're spending in Australia, but he's still a little hesitant.

"I - it's good to have you here," he says, slowly, and you smile.

"Thank you, that's sweet of you."

He stops again, but this time you sense that his caution isn't because of the language barrier.

"You and Chan-hyung spend a lot of time together," he tells you softly, "but it’s good, he's happier with you."

You blink.

"I… see," you answer, although you don't, and Changbin smiles at you.

"You're good for him," he says, and you smile back, because you don't know how else to react.

***

Once is a one-off, and twice is a coincidence, but three times sets off the warning bells in your head, because this - whatever this is, between you and Chris - it’s not something you’re expecting to last. 

Saturday night finds you sliding out of the casino onto a tram, and ending up on a stool at a bar after 3RACHA's latest gig, accepting the shot of tequila Han presses into your hand.

Chris slings his arm over your shoulder, and you throw back the drink, leaning into him.

There's a new face at the table, an incredibly pretty boy with fluffy dark hair and full lips, all long legs, and he moves with a kind of innate grace.

"This is Hyunjin," Chris introduces, and you recognise the name from the stories he's told you about his friends in Korea, "he's in Melbourne for work so we made him come to today's gig."

"I was promised alcohol," Hyunjin says wryly, "it's nice to meet you."

His English flows a little smoother than Changbin’s, slightly accented but adorable, and you shake his hand. He's oddly familiar - you feel like you've seen him somewhere before, not just on 3RACHA's social media, and you say as much.

Han snorts.

"Jinnie's a model," he says, ignoring the elbow Hyunjin shoves into his side, "you know that chocolate ad with the flowers that's all over YouTube?" 

"That's you?" you ask Hyunjin, and he groans.

"It's embarrassing," he whines, and Changbin pokes him in the shoulder.

He sing-songs something in Korean, high-pitched and cutesy, and Hyunjin’s sharp retort contains something about Changbin being a pig and a rabbit, which naturally has Changbin trying to pinch him. 

Han intervenes, dragging Changbin off to get more drinks, and Chris rolls his eyes.

Hyunjin tips his head to look at him.

“Your roots are awful, hyung,” he remarks.

Hm, you hadn't paid it much mind, but it is true that Chris' roots are showing, the near ink-black of his natural colour a sharp contrast to the almost-platinum blonde of his hair.

Chris scowls.

“I know, but it’s crazy expensive to touch them up here, and I don’t trust either of those two with bleach near my head,” he says, jerking a thumb in the general direction of where Han and Changbin had gone. 

“Maybe Y/N can do it,” Hyunjin suggests, and Chris looks at you like you're the solution to his problems.

“Absolutely not,” you say, before he gets any ideas, and he doesn’t get to respond because he’s interrupted by one of the other performers coming up to speak with him. Chris untangles himself from you, and he presses an absent kiss to your cheek as he moves to talk to the guy.

You and Hyunjin are left alone.

"What are you in Melbourne for?" you ask him, and he smiles.

"Photoshoot, and a fashion show," he explains, "but I managed to get a few days off to come up early and see the guys." 

"That's nice," you say, "is this your first time here?"

"No, but it’s the first time I’ve been able to see the city."

Hyunjin is clearly a social butterfly, used to being on camera and the attention that comes with it, and he's good at making small talk.

Or maybe not _that_ good, because after some idle chatter he drops a bombshell.

"How long have you and Chan-hyung been together?" he asks, and you nearly spit out the shot you just took.

"What? No, no, Chris and I are just friends with some benefits," you say, once you've swallowed the tequila and you're sure you're not going to choke, "it's nothing serious, really, we only met a few months ago."

Hyunjin laughs awkwardly, scratching his head.

"Ah, is that so? Sorry I assumed, Chan-hyung isn't really very touchy but he is with you," he says, "he looks at you differently, too."

You're sure your laugh is awkward as well.

The atmosphere is tense - and you're saved by Han and Changbin returning with a few mugs of beer, and another tray of shots.

"Do you want to get hungover?" Hyunjin asks, eyeing the shots with suspicion, and Han scoffs.

"As if tequila will defeat me."

"It's happened before," Hyunjin replies, and Han rounds on him, the conversation descending into squabbling in Korean.

You look up, and you make eye contact with Chris, over the shoulder of the guy he's talking to. He smiles at you, the quirk of his lips sweet and tender and-

You pick up another shot and throw it back, because seriously, God knows you need it.

***

You do what you do, on the rare occasions where your head is a mess and you can’t untangle the chaos in your brain, when you’re caught off-guard and can’t find your footing, and that's to talk to the one person who still tolerates your bullshit, despite your habit of running away to foreign countries with little warning and for no discernible reason.

You've also gotten through nearly three bottles of beer and a quarter of your new pack of cigarettes, at this point, but whatever.

"I hate you," Xinling says, the moment she picks up, "I still cannot believe you went to Australia for a year and you only told me two weeks before you left."

"Ling-"

"You better buy me a souvenir and if it's a shitty keychain you will regret it-"

" _Ling_ ," you cut in, holding her gaze over the grainy video for a long moment, and then you both burst out laughing.

"God, I fucking miss you," she says, grinning, and you return it.

"Me too. How are you?" you ask, and she launches into a tirade. 

You love Ling. She's your sister from another mother, the two of you like two peas in a pod. You'd met in detention, in high school, and somehow that led to an intense, close friendship that's survived graduation, college, and the other trials of life. You don't talk very often, not with the lives you both lead, but she has your back the same way you always have hers.

She eventually finishes her complaining, and looks at you.

"Enough about me," she says, "you only call when you need someone to set you straight, so spill.”

"Bitch," you say, without any heat, and then you tell her - about Australia, about Sydney, about Gerroa, about Melbourne, about Chris, about the things his friends have told you, about how you and Chris are like twin suns in orbit, circling each other, seeking each other out like moths to flames. 

"First of all," Ling starts, "you cannot be twin suns in orbit because suns don't orbit, planets do-"

" _Xinling_ ," you groan, taking another gulp of beer - followed by another drag of a cigarette - and she laughs.

"Kidding, kidding," and you know she is, it's how she defuses the tension, how she makes your concerns and problems seem easier to manage.

She hums thoughtfully.

"This reminds me of that girlfriend you almost had," she says, "in your second year of law school."

You wince.

"No, let's not go there."

"Yes, we're going there, because you are an idiot," Ling insists, terrorising you over a shitty video call from a thousand miles away, "Chris sounds like a great guy and I really think this could be something more."

“That’s what you said about Tiffany, and look how that ended.”

“It’s your fault, that’s what you get for fucking her and keeping your feelings to yourself and letting her get away,” Ling says, shortly, and you're aware that your silence is telling.

You finish up your beer and start on a new cigarette.

"He has a whole other life in Korea, Ling," you say, "he's got dreams of making it big as a producer and playing bigger venues with his group and I don't think his summer fling from Australia factors into that vision."

You lean back in your seat.

"And I've got a life back home, loath as I am to admit it."

"I _am_ still watering your plants," Ling says, "but you're living a half-life, babe, one foot here and the other wherever-the-fuck-else and you know it."

You exhale another cloud of smoke into the sky.

“How do you feel about him?” she asks, pointedly, and you sigh.

“I don’t know, Ling,” you mutter, “I don’t even want to think about it, because it doesn’t matter - it’s not going to last.”

It’s her turn to sigh, audible even through the shitty internet connection.

“Babe,” she starts, “don’t lie to yourself, not about this.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. 

You don’t want to acknowledge it, but Ling’s right. You’re lying, when you tell her you don’t know how you feel about Chris, because after the bar you’d spent the night staring into the bottom of a bottle of shitty whiskey, chain smoking like it was going out of style, and with the alcohol and the nicotine thrumming in your blood you’d come to a devastating conclusion. 

You’re notoriously reckless, and your usual approach to new cities is a whirlwind of bars and clubs, art museums and casinos and tourist traps, hookups with people you never see again, forging friendships that are sometimes fleeting. But things haven’t been the same, and you’re getting comfortable, falling into a rhythm that thrills and scares you in turn, and well - the truth is, you know yourself better than anyone else. 

See, you've lived life on the edge, you’ve seen your fair share of the world, gotten into trouble and gotten out of it, hooked up with pretty boys and pretty girls.

You know how to play this game.

You’re just not sure what you’ll do, now that it's become something else.

***

One thing you're good at is compartmentalizing. It's something you started doing, to remain functional during the disaster that was high school, and it kept you going throughout the ravages of college, the detritus of your failed interpersonal relationships, and the two painful years of your short-lived career.

You’re also notorious for making questionable decisions, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, but that’s beside the point. 

The point is, despite your emotional turmoil, you find yourself in 3RACHA's bathroom, a brush, the kind hairdressers use to apply dye, in hand, wearing an old oversized button-up shirt that’s serving as a makeshift smock. Chris is sitting on a stool, shirtless with a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair pinned up in sections with an assortment of clips and bobby pins. 

The stinging smell of the container of hair bleach next to the sink is potent, even though the bathroom door is open and the windows cracked for ventilation. 

You really don’t know how you got here, but you guess you’re just weak for a pretty boy. 

"Are you _sure_ you want me to do this for you?" you ask, again, twirling the brush between your fingers, "and not like, Han or Changbin?"

"Changbin goes to the salon and pays hundreds of dollars," Chris answers, "and I know you follow Jisung on Instagram, you've seen the hair he used to have before he went back to black."

"It was a rather uneven bleach job," you admit, "he did it himself?"

"Even though we told him repeatedly not to," Chris says, wry, and you laugh.

"I haven't dyed my own hair since college, never mind bleaching anything."

"It's just my roots," Chris tells you, encouragingly.

"Don't hate me if it turns out badly," you say, and Chris laughs.

"I'd never."

You smile, and pick up the container of bleach, stepping between his legs.

His hands come up to rest on your hips, steadying you, and you get to work.

It's a slow and methodical process, and you bite your lip as you slowly coat his roots with the hydrogen peroxide, taking your time to make sure you haven't missed a spot. 

His hands are warm, even through your shirt, and you can feel his breaths against your skin.

You swallow.

"Let me get the back," you tell him, and he pulls away slowly, letting you move to stand behind him.

"Tip your head down," you murmur, and he obeys.

You carry on with the process, slow and painstaking, and you can see the movement of the muscles of his shoulders, as he inhales and exhales softly. You swallow, working the bleach around his roots carefully. 

“Alright,” you say, stepping out from behind him to set the container and the brush down on the bathroom counter, “we’ll let it sit for a bit and wash it out, then go over with dye to tone it.” 

You double check how long it needs to sit for, eyes skimming over the packaging, and you set the timer on your phone. You’re startled when Chris reaches out, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap. 

You go, willingly, because you’re a glutton for punishment, and he’s warm against you. The smell of hair bleach is thick in the air, intermingled with sweat and his cologne, with your perfume, and it’s a little heady. 

His hand slides up, under your shirt, and he hooks this thumb into the waistband of your shorts.

“You have to wash your hair in fifteen minutes,” you say, warningly, and he pouts.

He should look ridiculous, his bleached-blonde hair pinned up messily, peroxide at his roots, sticking out his bottom lip like a child, and nothing about this should be sexy, not with the potent smell of chemicals, the sounds of Melbourne on a weekday afternoon audible through the open windows, the sticky heat of the Australian summer.

But he’s incredibly attractive, shoulders broad beneath your fingers, and the pout melts into a smile, honest and unassuming. He wants, but he never pushes, and there’s something in your chest that feels like easy affection, even though you really should know better. 

You lean forward, and against your better judgment, you take his bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it, licking over the hurt, before kissing him. 

When you pull back, his eyes are dark. 

“Fifteen minutes,” you remind him, and he grins, a little cocky. 

“Challenge accepted.”

***

_Don’t give up before you’ve even tried, and don’t be an idiot xoxo_

You scowl at the newest message you’ve received from Xinling, complete with a sticker of a dancing bear, and seeing as you’re not above pettiness, you leave her on read. 

The sound of a car horn jerks you out of your thoughts, and you can’t help the smile that comes to your face when a familiar Toyota Corolla pulls up outside the hostel.

Chris rolls down the window. He’s got sunglasses on, a baseball cap worn backwards, dressed in what looks like an old t-shirt that’s had its sleeves cut off, and his grin is bright.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and you smile, stowing your overnight bag in the back before sliding into the passenger seat. 

He leans over to console to kiss you, in greeting, and you let him.

“Let’s go,” you say, tipping your own sunglasses down from where they’ve been perched on top of your head, and he flashes you another grin before easing back into traffic.

His phone is plugged in to the aux, and you settle back, listening to the cheery Korean pop song he’s got on.

“You can add stuff to the playlist,” he offers, “I tried to put together what I remembered we liked, from Gerroa.”

It's a very sweet gesture, and as you scroll through the playlist you see that his memory's not half-bad - there's a healthy dose of pop-punk, a fair amount of rock, a smattering of K-pop and rap hits, and some pop music.

"You did a good job," you say, grinning, "but nothing from 3RACHA?"

"Y/N," Chris says, sounding pained, and you navigate to their page on Spotify, hitting play on one of the songs on the list.

He groans, when Han's cheerful voice rings out over the car speakers.

"Why are you playing 'Wow'," he complains, "it's embarrassing."

"It's adorable," you shoot back.

"Do you even know what the lyrics mean?" Chris asks, making a turn, and your smile is smug.

"Han translated them for me," you say.

"I'm gonna kill him."

"You can't, you'll lose a lyricist."

"I'll make do with Changbin," he retorts, and you both burst out laughing.

You shuffle the playlist to another song - this time something from Fall Out Boy - as a concession, and he laughs at the gesture.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Maccas?” he offers, and you smile. 

“Of course.”

Things are comfortable between you and Chris, the same way it was when you’d hit it off outside that bar in Sydney - Gerroa had only served to bring you two even closer, and the conversation flows like water. He tells you about 3RACHA’s music, the new stuff they’re working on, and you fill him in on your plans for a new tattoo, one to commemorate your trip to Australia.

“What are you going to get?” Chris asks, and you trace the one on your forearm absently. 

“I’m not sure yet,” you tell him, “it’ll be something to do with nature, but I need to think about it a little more.”

“Fair enough,” he says, and from there the conversation moves on to how Changbin has been waffling over getting a tattoo for years. 

The chatter comes easily, but the two of you are also content to sit quietly, listening to music and enjoying being on the road. 

It’s a long drive, long enough that you actually get behind the wheel for some of the straight stretches, cruising down the highway en route to Port Campbell. 

You haven’t driven in years, but you’re literally just following the road, it’s not that hard.

“You’re not that bad a driver,” Chris remarks, from the passenger seat, working his way through a bag of chips as the Corolla hurtles down the vast stretch of the M1.

You scoff.

“Chris, I’m literally driving in a straight line,” you tell him, “wait till I have to park, or, God forbid, the road starts to have curves.”

You’d already gotten slightly confused at a roundabout, so your expectations for yourself are very low. 

“We should switch back closer to Port Campbell anyway,” he says, “it can get tricky to navigate some of the smaller roads, to get to the attractions.”

“As someone who, before today, only drove in a city, yes please,” you tell him, lightly, and he grins.

“You’re already doing better than Han did - I’m not letting him behind the wheel of my car again, he nearly crashed us when we drove to Melbourne.” 

“I still can’t believe you guys drove eight hours from Sydney,” you mutter, eyes still on the road, and he shrugs.

“It was cheaper, and I have the car anyway.”

“What are you going to do with it when you go back to Korea?” you ask.

“We’ll be flying back from Sydney, so I’ll just leave it with my parents,” Chris explains, “someone will use it, probably my sister, and I’ll have a car whenever I come back.” 

“Makes sense,” you tell him, and he hums softly. 

You check the mirrors, glancing over your shoulder, accelerating slightly before switching lanes, and you twitch when Chris lays a hand on your thigh.

You chance a glance at him.

He’s gazing out the window, bag of chips on his lap, and he’s acting like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

You shake your head, tamping down on the weird emotions in your chest, and step on the brake so that you’re under the speed limit.

***

Port Campbell is lovely. The two of you stop by a random diner on the highway for lunch, eating greasy fish and chips and drinking soda with the smell of sea salt in the air, and you split a plate of raw oysters, fresh and tangy with lemon on your tongue. The sun is high in the sky, beating down on your necks, but it’s still refreshing. 

From there, it’s not much longer till the National Park, and by mutual agreement, you take your time - there are many accommodation options around the area, and you’ll probably be able to find a room later, when you need one.

It’s an amazing experience. The two of you try to hit every attraction on the list, splashing each other with water at Port Campbell Bay, doing one of the local discovery walks, peering at the wildlife, and stopping half-a-dozen times to take photos of the randomest things, gazing at cliff faces and being awed at one of the local blowholes.

You stop in at the Loch Ard Gorge, ham it up for the camera at the London Arch, explore the Grotto, and by the time Chris pulls up at a small, quiet lookout point with a gorgeous view of the Twelve Apostles, the tall, towering rock formations majestic against the sky, the sun is starting to set, bathing everything in a warm, orange light.

The two of you take another bunch of photos - of each other, with each other, of the scenery, with the scenery - and then you both settle on the roof of Chris’ car, sitting side-by-side and watching the sun dip over the horizon, the colours of the sky intoxicating and vibrant. 

You’ve got a jacket on, to ward against the evening chill, but Chris is still in his tank top and sweatpants, the two of you quietly smoking a few cigarettes as you watch the sunset. 

He's handsome, silhouetted by the setting sun, and you don’t realise you’re staring, until he turns to look at you, quirking his lips in a small smile.

“See something you like?” he asks, playful.

“Perhaps,” you answer, only half-joking, and you return your attention to the scene before you, things falling silent for a while, save for the sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore and the birds, high in the trees. 

“Hey, Y/N?”

“Hm?” you ask, turning towards him, and Chris reaches out, taking your hand and lacing your fingers with his. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

You blink.

There’s something between the two of you, potent and electric, like being on the precipice and taking a leap, when the coin is in the air and you don’t know which way it’s going to fall.

You swallow.

“What is it?” you ask, softly, and he’s a vision in gold in the setting sun, the colour high on his cheeks. 

He looks - young, shy, uncertain - and you rub circles into the joint of his thumb with your own. 

He draws in a breath.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, softly, and you blink.

Once, twice, three times. 

“Chris -” you start, and he reaches out to grab both your hands. 

“I know,” he says, “I know it’s not logical, we’ve known each other for like two months, and you’ve got a whole life waiting for you back home, and I’m going back to Korea, and you’re older and more experienced and just way too cool for a kid like me, and there’s a thousand ways this could go wrong but -”

He looks so nervous.

“But I really, _really_ like you,” he confesses, “I really like you, and I couldn’t - “

He sucks in a breath, sharply.

“I had to try,” he admits. 

You stare at him, at his earnest eyes, and your thoughts are racing, a million miles a minute, everything that could go wrong unfolding before you in technicolour, but also everything that could go right.

Xinling’s message comes back to you.

_Don’t give up before you’ve even tried._

“I like you a lot too,” you murmur, and his eyes widen.

“I like you more than I should,” you tell him, baring another sliver of your soul in the setting sun, “and you’re right, there’s a thousand ways it could go wrong.”

You squeeze his hands, and offer him a smile, one genuine and real.

“But we can try,” you say, softly, and his answering grin is gorgeous.

He takes your face between his hands, and you reach out to curl your hand around his shoulder, and the kiss is long and slow and deep.

***

It’s different that night, when you both tumble into the hotel room, tangled up in each other, your mouths sweet with wine and nicotine. You’re both chasing pleasure, yes, but there’s something else, affection and care bleeding over into how you touch each other, unfettered and unconstrained.

Chris pushes you onto the bed and you loop an arm around his neck, bringing him down with you, the kisses messy and fast as you both try to feel as much skin as possible, peeling off clothes hastily. 

You leave a fresh ring of bruises around his neck, and he sucks several into your collarbones, his fingers against your clit sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. He’s hot and hard, against you, and you get your hand around his length.

From there it’s more dirty, filthy kisses, slow and intoxicating like the nicotine fizzling in your veins, harsh whimpers and sweet nothings murmured into skin, your voice high and needy against the walls when he kisses his way down your chest, laving attention on your nipples, when he buries his head between your thighs, the way you twist your wrist when you jerk him off, his choked, gritted-out curses when you swallow him down. 

Your twin sighs, pain-pleasure-relief, when you climb into his lap and finally, _finally_ sink down on his cock, wet and wanting and eager. He fills you, solid and warm, your teeth and nails branding even more marks into his skin as he grips your thighs, leaving bruises on your flesh. 

“Fuck,” you say, breathily, against the fullness and the stretch, and he rubs circles into your hips, soothingly, a contrast to the way his teeth are worrying another mark into your shoulder. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he tells you, “you’re gorgeous always, but especially like this.”

You cup his face, fingers tangled in his hair, and kiss him deeply, rolling your hips in one long, slow movement that has him scrabbling for purchase against your skin. 

“Flatterer,” you murmur, “you’re lovely as well, darling.”

He sucks in a breath at the endearment, and you move again, slow, dragging it out, relishing the way he looks, needy and wanting.

You’re just as desperate, honestly. 

“Baby,” he grits out, and that’s a first, “please.” 

You smile, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face, and he’s intoxicating, he’s beautiful, he’s everything you never let yourself believe you could have.

You drop your head, and graze his ear with your teeth. 

“Go on,” you whisper, and he delivers. It’s hot, and fast, all time for patience gone when it’s just pure need, raw and primal and devastating, and when you come, when he fills you, your lips meet.

There’s something like a promise woven between your intermingled breaths, and it’s heady and thrilling and tender, all at once. 

***

You’re gazing out at the river, outside the National Gallery, leaning against the railing and staring out at the water, at the bright lights of the city at night reflected in the ebbs and flows. 

You’re startled out of your thoughts by an arm around your waist. 

“Hey,” Chris murmurs, and you tip your head up to kiss him. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply, and he dips his head to press his lips to the tattoo on your right shoulder, freshly healed. 

You smile.

It's the newest addition to your collection, a delicate blue-winged butterfly inked into your skin as a memento of sorts of your time in Australia, your nails leaving red crescents in Chris’ palm as the needle dug into your skin. It's a Ulysses butterfly, native to the more tropical parts of the continent, and the colours of it remind you of the Australian sky. 

Melbourne is a city of art and colour and light, and Chris is as brilliant as the city lit up at night, exhilarating and neon and gold. 

“Ready to go?” Chris asks, his hand sliding down to hold yours, and you smile.

“Of course.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3 
> 
> Some author thoughts:  
> \- I have never been to the Yarra Valley. Can you actually do farmstays at a vineyard there? No clue, but it’s not impossible, so whatever.  
> \- Do not have sex in the middle of bleaching your hair. PSA.  
> \- I love Brighton Beach, I know a lot of people think it touristy but I like it the same way I like Bondi I guess.  
> \- I have never been to the Great Ocean Road either, and I really want to.  
> \- I don't talk about it in this fic but if you're driving in Australia in the summer… slather your arms in sunscreen or get driving gloves or something, you can actually get sunburn while driving  
> \- Chan's car in this universe is a Toyota Corolla because I know nothing about cars and I used to drive my dad's Corolla so it's my only point of reference (much like Y/N, I do not enjoy driving, although I should get back into it)  
> \- I'm not sure if you can smoke in national parks in Australia but if you can't then I’m sure people do it illegally all the damn time so whatever lol  
> \- Y/N’s new [tattoo](https://www.tattoofilter.com/p/5434), if anyone cares  
> \- I actually have a handful of other stories for this universe percolating in my brain. We’ll see when I get them out on paper. 
> 
> I have a K-pop stan IG [@omaisvt](https://www.instagram.com/omaisvt/) I welcome any conversations there. Yes I'm a huge Seventeen stan, they and Stray Kids are like, my precious.


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